


don't blame me—we're getting closer

by halfwayalaska



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Bloodplay, F slur, Knifeplay, M/M, it kind of starts as a joke but trust me it gets worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 23:36:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfwayalaska/pseuds/halfwayalaska
Summary: "What if we kissed and we were both boys."What the fuck? Hello?





	don't blame me—we're getting closer

**Author's Note:**

> it starts kind of like a joke but then it gets a bit bloody! go crazy go stupid  
title is a quote from loonatic by loona LMAO  
inspo for fic imgur.com/a/vBz42qg

A deep wound, inflicted by one of the Legion, bled profusely.

True to its name, the slice tore through Quentin's pants, met the pale flesh of his thigh, and kept going; the gash was long, and the skin surrounding it burned a blistering red, like it was infected. 

It had impaired his movement, giving him an awkward sort of limp. The heavy blood loss tired him faster than any chase could— he needed to find a corner to bandage himself in, and quickly.

The realm, some variant of Coldwind Farm, was like the seventh circle of hell but with cornstalks. All survivors agreed that it was absolutely impossible and a complete nightmare to try to navigate through the stalks. You had to be careful to not disrupt the plants, or else you'd leave an obvious trail.

Fuck, who the hell was pretentious enough to be careful when a fucking killer is breathing down your back, weapon in hand, ready to gut you? Not Quentin.

However, against the Legion, the cornstalks were actually a decent cover, and proved useful for once. Since they were so short, they struggled just as much as survivors navigating through the accursed stalks.

Instead of a corner as his original plan called for, Quentin plopped down in the field and opened his med-kit. It was only good for a use and nine-tenths of another, but deep wounds didn't even require a bit of that. The aftereffects were what he needed the med-kit for.

There were screams off in the distance, but the tired survivor continued to wrap the fresh wound in the shitty athletic bandages the Entity provided them with. Whoever was getting fucked over wasn't near him; he could take a moment to breathe and let the usual panic set in.

Soon satisfied with his shit-job of bandage wraps, he crawled off to find a generator to work on. His heartbeat spiked, though, so he ditched and booked it toward what seemed to be— the Killer Shack? The Entity was on his side this trial.

Sneaking into the furthermost locker, Quentin held his breath and prayed for something more than this. He wasn't normally the one using lockers, nor did he often pray mid-trial, but drastic times called for drastic measures.

Unfortunately, the Legion, whichever member it was, poked their head through the entryway.

"Hey, Quen— you're in here, right? Come out. We should chat, I think," drawled the killer, leaning against the doorframe. Their tone was playful, contrasting their gruff and gravelly voice.

Uh, yeah, no way, thought the survivor as he softly slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his breathing. His heart was racing, but he wished it would just flat-line.

Peeking through the locker's shutters, he spied on the killer. They were wearing a red and white varsity jacket, a gladiator logo printed on the back with bright text labeling "1993" underneath. Their hood up and face turned the other way— back into the farm rather than the lockers— so Quentin struggled to get a look at their mask. By their shitty camo-print pants, black boots, and the aforementioned varsity jacket, he was able to deduce which member it probably was.

The aggressive redneck-jock dude. Out of all of the members of the gang, this guy was the most bloodthirsty. Previous trials against him supported that claim.

The Legion did a turnaround in the doorway before tilting their head at the double lockers, probably grinning under that stupid bloody mask. Quentin was not as amused.

Humming, the legionnaire spoke. "Okay, I'm not gonna check these lockers. Because I know you're not stupid enough to hop into one of these."

No, yeah, they definitely knew he was in there.

A hot second passed before whatever their name was— besides the all-identifying Legion— bounced out the window. Confused, Quentin wondered why they hadn't just walked out of the doorway they had been standing in.

Common sense told him he should wait for his pulse to settle before slinking out of the locker. A moment later, upon exiting, he bit out a scream.

God, what a fucking joke.

The Legion popped up in the doorway, once again tilting their head, this time at Quentin. "Dude, I legit told you I wasn't gonna check the lockers. Why'd you go and fuck it up, huh? Idiot."

Quentin glared right back. "Oh, yeah, my bad, didn't mean to squeal as soon as I got out. Wow, wonder why that happened," he deadpanned, praying his sarcasm got through their thick skull.

"It's called iron maiden, dickface. It's to prevent cowards like you from hiding all game, and by God it fuckin' worked! I bet you were in there the whole time, freak."

"The hell's an iron maiden? Do you think I give a shit about that? You are, honestly speaking, probably the stupidest person I've ever talked to. I'm gonna knife myself if you don't get this on with."

Feigning shock, the Legion gasped. "Oh, jeez," they padded closer to Quentin, "we got a real baddie here. I'm gonna shove you right back in that locker."

The survivor rolled his eyes. This was a major waste of time, and he began to believe he'd rather be a corpse rotting into rigor mortis— as long as this weirdo wasn't a necrophiliac.

"Uh-huh, whatever helps you sleep at night. Can we seriously just get this on with?" impatience was thick in Quentin's voice, unsure the Legion would catch on.

"What if we kissed and we were both boys."

What the fuck? Hello?

Quentin paused to think. "Uhm, well— honestly, you've spent a thousand and one trials sticking your stupid little hunting knife in my back. I have no idea about what you're fucking going on about, but if we kissed I would strangle myself."

The jock looked like they— he— planned on countering his statement, but Quentin interrupted. "Also, is that like a legit confession? 'Cause at this point I'm actually convinced you're fucking nuts. Like, you have rabies."

Crossing his arms, the Legion muttered "Yeah, and what if I do? What would you do? Good luck finding a cure around here," he couldn't see his face, but Quentin was pretty sure the dude was holding back a slur.

"We could hold hands on the way to the hook if that makes you feel better," the survivor offered, entirely joking. The hint that he wanted to just die already wasn't that subtle, but with how the Legion's been acting he might go insane.

"Y'know what? That actually would make me feel better, thanks! I wish I could curb stomp you right now."

And so the masked killer took Quentin's hand in his own. It was grimy, had dirty bandages wrapped around it, and was covered in caked blood. He has not held many hands, but these are probably the worst hands he had ever even like... just seen. The hobo living behind Pizza Hut was more cleaned up than this.

It was nasty, but Quentin trudged on, for once looking forward to the giant meathook about to impale his chest. The Legion hummed thoughtfully, pleased with himself.

Against better judgement, the hook-bound teen tries to fill the not awkward, but nauseating, silence. "So, uh, where's the rest of the survivors?" It was sort of a stupid question, because they were probably dead and it was definitely gonna inflate the Legion's ego, but the hook was right there and he wouldn't be alive long enough to hear it.

"Bleeding out, probs. Sacrificed the red-head and nerd boy, cut too deep into the slavic girl and she hit the ground hard and fast. If I had to guess, she's dead."

He paused for a breath, then continued.

"The Entity whispers in my ear when the corpses get carried off into Oblivion, the Above, back to the Campfire, whatever name there is for it. I hear it now. You hear the Entity entering the realm though, yeah? The loud rush of wind and buzzing off in the distance?"

They'd stopping walking. The hook was maybe a couple yards in front of them, just out of the cornfield they had been making their way through.

The legionnaire turned to him.

"Now— I get to do this!" He hissed, raising his hunting knife methodically. As he swung it down, Quentin barely had a chance to dodge, only enough athletic reflex to deflect the stab into his forearm instead of the chest as the Legion had been aiming for.

Again, they swiftly yanked the knife out before bringing it down, this time hitting Quentin in the ribs. He coughed up some blood, feeling it dribble down his chin. The masked man punched Quentin square in the nose, and made him bleed there, too. He hadn't gotten one of these since fighting Freddy— the Nightmare— in the real world, he guessed.

Or, if the Plague got her way in the trials Quentin faced against her, there would be acidic puss and clumpy blood leaking out from every place on the body where something could be excreted. It was disgusting, but much more bearable than some of the other killers. Much more bearable than this.

"Ow, God, fuck— the hook is right over there. Can you fucking keep it in your pants?" panted Quentin, knowing kindness wouldn't get that meathook through his torso any faster.

Shoving him to the ground, the Legion climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. "Mm, no, I can't. Better luck next time," he murmured, before punching Quentin straight in the gut. It felt like his organs were exploding from the sudden pressure.

Hacking up more blood, the survivor weakly used his arms to try and get the killer off. The position felt so violating, so uncomfortable. Unfortunately, the Legion stuck the knife into his already-injured thigh, undoing the bandages and stopping Quentin from struggling— he was overcome with pain.

A finger is inserted into the gash from earlier and Quentin cannot help but scream. It hurt like hell. The Legion added another finger, messing with the parted skin.

With his free hand, he jabbed the knife into the survivor's flesh again, close to under his ribs. Only the Legion didn't remove the knife right away, instead opting to wiggle it around, as if he were checking if it were solidly in-place. It was: right in Quentin's gut.

"I'm gonna leave this in here for a sec," said the jock mockingly before tugging down his hood and unclasping his mask, removing it. He was white, but a sickly shade of it. There are two pale scars marring his face, one on his lips vertically and the other across the bridge of his nose. His hair is dark brown and short, likely once a buzzcut. With half-lidded eyes, it was hard for Quentin to tell what color his irises are.

Near passing out, he tilted his head to the side and forcefully shut his eyes, unable to look at the too human face above him. He hoped blood loss killed him before this sicko did. A shuffling noise above him was frightening, and the dots were connected when a needle was embedded into his neck. He howled, thick maroon liquid spurting from the puncture when the pointed object was carelessly removed.

"Oops. Is that not how the syringe works? My bad, let me try again."

The Legion poked it into his chest, this time properly releasing the anti-septic inside. Quentin felt the Entity's damning magic pulsing through his body, wounds closing up and a dull ache setting in.

Leaning close, the man whispered in his ear. "Name's Frank, by the way." Frank pulled out his knife slowly, and smeared some of blood gushing out of the leftover wound on his face.

Quentin's shirt, which was absolutely fucking wrecked at this point, was being forcefully removed by the other man. Helplessly, he tried to protest, kicking and shoving, but Frank overpowered him entirely.

"Please— God, please don't rape me. Don't," begged Quentin, "please."

Laughing, Frank looked him in the eyes. His were a deep brown, an unnaturally dark tint to them. "Fuck off, I'm not that gross. And I would never touch another man like that. That's so crude of you to suggest," he enunciated slowly, like Quentin was deaf.

Roughly, he dug the knife in under his victim's armpit, above the top rib, shoving it down to the hilt. The survivor tried to pull it out himself, but Frank pinned the suspect hand to the ground.

"Don't try that again, fag. I absolutely won't hesitate to slice your fingers off," the other man threatened, twisting Quentin's wrist at an awkward angle; predictably, it snapped, causing him to cry out. Frank released the arm and removed the knife, excited eyes looking for the next place to strike. "Didn't think I was still strong enough to do that," he commented, more-so to himself than Quentin.

Painfully shutting his eyes, he risked asking a question. "How long do you plan on keeping this up?" And when he wasn't granted the mercy of an answer: "Please. I don't even know what I did to deserve this."

"Bro, I am so close to gagging you. Shut the fuck up." The threat was meaningless though, because Frank was already sticking his fingers down Quentin's throat. His gag reflex was absolutely denying the digits, but the killer pressed on anyways. It wasn't like there was anything for him to throw up— he hadn't eaten anything in what feels like decades.

Quentin's eyes roll back— if he wasn't crying already, he definitely was now. There was snot bubbling in his nose, sobs choked out by Frank's fingers in his throat. He'd be begging him to stop if he could even form the fucking words.

"You would look so fucking good sucking my cock. God, you're such a little whore— I bet you would. You like being violated, don't you? Slut."

He shook his head no; he didn't like this at all. He struggled to breathe. The only solace he had at this point was the bleak hope he would die by asphyxiation rather than a knife goring his throat out.

Frank removed his index and middle finger, a line of drool still connecting them to Quentin's tongue. He smeared the spit on the survivor's cheek, smirking.

"You are so lucky I'm not fucking you dry right now. Would be so sexy, seeing you bleed down there."

Still crying, Quentin's face had become all puffy and red. The dried blood that had run from his nose and mouth were wet again from tears. He wanted to say something, but as the killer just stated, his luck was already being tested. So he laid there, limp and feeling like the black death.

The knife thinly sliced down from under his collarbone to his hip-bone, and after re-tracing the long cut with a bloodied finger, Frank played with Quentin's pants' waistband. "What would you do," he breathed hotly, "if I took these off? Would you scream? Kick n' thrash? Keep cryin' like a pussy?"

Giving him a feverish look, the slowly dying boy responded. "All of th— those. Anything to get that knife in my throat faster." A bit cocky, but the common sense from earlier that told him playing it safe was the best bet he had was gone too soon.

Frank cackled. "Oh, you fuckin' wish I was easily manipulated. Nice try. Nah, I ain't falling for that BS. Watch this," he muttered mockingly, then shoved the knife in Quentin's thigh, pulling it out just as quickly. He tried to use his good hand to cover the wound, but Frank sniped that option by pinning down his palm with the knife.

In enough pain to make his vision go dark, Quentin can't help screaming at the impalement. He was blubbering pleads to Frank, begging him to just get it over with already. Looking bored, the man pinning him down didn't respond, just stuck a finger in the thigh wound from earlier and dug a nail into the red flesh.

Quentin yelled, but was interrupted halfway through by a fit of coughing. It wracked his body, making him shake violently. There was blood in his throat, and he tried to vomit that in substitute of whatever was left in his stomach. However, he choked on it, hacking brutally, desperately attempting to sit up. Frank didn't let him.

In the end, that was how he died. A death on the hook, in comparison, sounded much more pleasant that choking on your own bloody bile. After Frank was sure he was dead, he gutted him. It sort of looked like what eighth graders did to frogs for their final test. It's sort of shameful, really, how things played out.


End file.
